


In which everyone's pain is entirely self-inflicted...

by TrillianParadise



Category: American Idiot - Green Day (Album), American Idiot - Green Day/Armstrong
Genre: Drug Addiction, F/M, M/M, One Shot, Pining, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23126851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrillianParadise/pseuds/TrillianParadise
Summary: One-shot drabbles about the characters. Johnny spends a confusing night beside Jimmy (who may or may not be a real person), while Tunny wakes from a coma and meets the nurse who will save him from his trauma. Relationships are implied.
Relationships: Extraordinary Girl/Tunny, St. Jimmy/Johnny
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. The saint

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so....this is really short.

“You cannot avoid the feeling that junk is in some way alive.”  
\- William Burroughs

Maybe it’s because Johnny is being particularly pitiful. Or maybe it’s simply because Jimmy hasn’t crashed in a while and the mattress looks pretty inviting, but either way, this time Jimmy stays.  
Johnny is surprised when Jimmy rolls over him to lie beside him on the other side of the mattress and throws an arm over his torso, having no qualms about invading personal space. Shameful and weak though he may feel, he relaxes under his arm with Jimmy’s breath in his ear, and he slips under the dark surface of drug-induced slumber.

…………………………………………

He wakes up to hot breath on the back of his neck and for a moment he believes that he is back home. He wonders which of his friends has fallen asleep in his bed with him, and what the least awkward method of waking them would be. Then he inhales deeply, the beginning of a contented sigh after a much-needed nights’ sleep, and smells - well - he smells Jimmy. Jimmy smells like back alleys and trash can fires, overactive saliva, sweat, and junkies who are scared of showering - and junk.   
His torso deflates on the exhale, and Jimmy’s arm falls with his breath. Then he begins to feel it creep on him once more, the sickness, the need for what Jimmy has hidded under the floorboards of this hideout. He cautiously slips out from under his arm and sits up, bringing his knees shakily to his chest. He feels light-headed as he wipes the blur from his eyes and blinks repeatedly. The room comes into focus. He spots the loose floorboard and feels hooks in his chest pulling him towards it, but first he glances down to make sure he doesn’t do anything to crush Jimmy and piss him off, which would be dangerous.  
He hesitates.  
There’s a momentary lull in the rushing intensity of his desperation and need as he gazes down at the owner of the shitty mattress he just spent the night sleeping on. Jimmy’s pale skin glows angelically under the fugitive sunlight that has escaped under the window shades. At some point, he must have removed his leather jacket, and he’s only wearing a plain, stained white t-shirt. His black hair is tousled outrageously on the pillow and his mouth hangs slightly open, his face is as smooth and angerless as Johnny has ever seen it. He is close enough to see all the places where the eyeliner he always wears so aggressively has been smudged. Johnny notices a few random sparkles of red glitter on his cheek, and he suppresses a smirk.  
A distracting, but not entirely foreign urge suddenly materializes and Johnny feels it in his guts like fingers running across piano keys in his organs. There’s a longing and desperate thought forming itself in the back of his mind - then Jimmy sucks in a breath (sudden enough to make Johnny’s heart jump momentarily) and his piercing green eyes open. He rolls onto his back with a sigh and notices Johnny. Still half asleep, he grins suggestively at him, “the hell you looking at?” He mutters, his voice like cracked pavement.   
The thought is gone, the sickness replaces it.   
“Help me get the stuff?” Johnny asks. Jimmy yawns and then nods, and rolls off the mattress.

End.


	2. The Extraordinary Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? A prose poem?

For the longest time, I was only dreaming.  
My mind is static and flips between black and white television channels.  
The family sitcom: I’m at home at my kitchen table and my mom asks me to take out the trash.  
Static, and switch.  
I’m drinking on my basement couch with Will and Johnny, we yell things at the tv screen and run out of beer. We make a 2am trip to the 7-11 up the street. ‘This is the end of the earth,’ Johnny proclaims (out of a sense of entrapment within the dead end boulevard), he scribbles as much on the dirty walls of the bathroom.  
Static, and switch.  
This is the one I don’t like, please, not this channel- white noise and dirt up my nose. I taste blood and grit and watch bodies move and be moved in ways they shouldn’t. Gunfire, and everyone was dying.  
Static, and switch.  
I’m in the big city with Johnny, who lets his rage take over. He wants the world to be his for once. I see everything glitter red white and blue, I need something to worship.  
Red. White.  
Blue. The walls are blue. There’s a woman standing over me, I recognize her from before, and know she’s the one who has been watching over me.  
Her eyes are tunnels, deep and dark, and there’s too much shine in them. She wipes tears from her freckled cheeks with a red shirtsleeve and sniffs. I watch her steady herself masterfully as she notices my consciousness, like a horseman taking control of the reins. She’s combing my hair, which is still short. It used to be long and wavy. Mine was golden, while hers is silky and black. I like this channel, I want to stay on it.  
I’ve been drifting and dreaming aimlessly until now, no motivation to take control of anything. I’ve been letting it all slip away into painless static.  
She’s an extraordinary girl.  
My lips move, and we are both equally shocked to hear my voice, weak and rasping as it is. “Hi,” I say, and she breaks into a startled and joyful smile. “Hi,” she returns, her voice gentle and cradling like downy feathers. “I’m Tunny,” I tell her. It’s what my friends called me anyways. I wonder how far away they are, are they alive? Everyone was dying.  
Maybe she and I are the only ones left alive, at least I’m not alone then.  
“I’m Emily,” she says, and she takes my hand.

End.


End file.
